


Ever Quite Enough

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Jealous Dean, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: People keep flirting with Cas. And it's kind of breaking Dean's heart having to watch.





	Ever Quite Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angela7667](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela7667/gifts).



It’s not that he invites the attention. He doesn’t purposely seek out the way people look at him, or do any of the endearing, cute little things he does that get him that attention in the first place, Dean thinks, scowling over at the bar where Cas is ordering.

No, it’s not his fault; not his cuteness or the fact that he is, hands down, the hottest guy in just about every room he walks into, and a fair few places outside as well. And it’s definitely _not_ Cas’ fault that _Dean_ recognizes just how hot he is, can’t drag his eyes away from him most of the time. The onus for that particular trait lies purely on Dean’s shoulders, though perhaps if Cas didn’t look so, well, _hot_ , every time he did anything, like _exist_ , well. Dean wouldn’t have half the trouble he does dragging his eyes elsewhere.

Half the time, Dean thinks, shifting in his seat in increasing fury as the barista at the bar stares back at Cas in utter delight, leaning forward on his forearms to peer over the counter and help him look at the choice of food on offer; half the time, he can pretend he’s oblivious to it, or laugh it off, play along even. When waitresses swoon at his careful politeness, or sigh indiscreetly on the rare occasions he takes off that damn trenchcoat in public, for example.

Dean shifts in his seat again at the reminder of Cas sans-trenchcoat, and curses at himself.

And hell, could that bastard barista be any more obvious, Dean rages to himself? Because now he’s draped over that counter top running his fingertips up the length of the tattoos on his arms, and Cas’ eyes are on them, riveted, whether out of that politeness or in genuine interest, Dean can’t tell from where he’s sitting. But it’s enough to leave him seething, ready to storm out of the coffee bar they’ve come to—just the two of them, he adds, sulking—and throw himself into the car and wait. For Cas to order, for Cas to get yet another number pressed into his fist, for the hell that is _watching_ this unfold to be diminished somehow by distance, though knowing that will only take the edge off his anger, and barely, at that.

Okay, so it’s less than half the time he’s okay with people flirting _at_ Cas, Dean thinks, and is very adamant about it being _at_ , and not _with_. Because although Cas isn’t oblivious, and has told him as much on several occasions, it’s still painful to see it. A painful reminder of missed opportunities and near-misses that have made Dean’s world that much harder, for revealing his own weaknesses and doubt.

But today, today’s got to be some special kind of hell reserved for Dean. The receptionist at the doctor’s surgery swooned over Cas first thing this morning, eyes drifting over him as though figuring out where to eat first. Then there had been the woman at the motel where they are staying for this case, lingering her eyes over Cas when they’d returned to change out of their suits after their interviews, as though he was a slab of meat.

At the grocery store where they’d picked up some stuff for the drive back to the bunker tomorrow, this _kid_ , who had to be no more than 19 at oldest, _leaned_ into Cas as he reached for something on a top shelf, all but purring up against him. And now, _barista guy_ is turning on all the charm he’s got, Dean growls to himself, trying not to grind his teeth as he watches.

It’s worse when it’s a _guy_ doing the flirting, Dean thinks, though can’t really give a valid reason for why.

Sam hasn’t helped at all, of course, noting just about every one of those interactions, and winding Dean up for it. It’s not malicious, and it isn’t anything Dean’s not invited himself having been in denial about how he feels about Cas for so long, but still. While he’s not looking for brotherly solidarity, what he _would_ like is a whole lot of not talking about it, not putting ideas in his head that just unleash the voices in there reminding Dean he’ll never be good enough for anyone, never mind Cas.

Dean shifts in his seat again and pushes back against it, looking down at his fingers tangled together in his lap, and telling himself to quit his self-pitying.

And then Cas is back. Effortlessly sliding into the seat beside him with a huff, a slip of paper scrunched up in his fingers that he screws up into a ball, and carelessly tosses in the tiny trash can that sits between their table and the two chairs opposite. Not hiding it, though not being obvious about it, Dean thinks, telling his stomach that it is not jolting, telling his heart there is no reason for it to be sinking at all.

“What is your opinion on tattoos?” Cas asks, his tone mild and mildly interested, as though this is a new concept he has just come across and wants to find out more.

 _Yours is hot_ , Dean wants to answer, remembering all the sneaky looks he’d gotten in when he was sure he’d get away with it, but says nothing at all, giving a one—shouldered, disinterested shrug. “Depends on the person,”

Cas’ gaze is turned on him then, shrewd and taking everything in, appearing to catalog every nuance of expression Dean feels himself making, and frowning a touch. He opens his mouth to speak, but Dean cuts him off, talks about meeting up with Sam when they’re done here, and asking what Cas wants to do that evening when they’re done for the day.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Cas asks, sparking off a thousand different responses, but then _barista guy_ is appearing beside them, and smashing those images forming in Dean’s mind, imagining doors slammed in faces instead. Cas is polite, as he is always polite, when _he_ lays their coffees and food out on their table, lingering his eyes over Cas’ face far too many seconds too long, then turning away again, blatantly looking back at Cas as he returns to the counter.

“I assumed you would like this,” Cas says, and Dean looks down from glaring at the back of the barista’s head, to the sound of Cas tapping at the side of his plate. And Dean’s heart sinks again, because although Cas unknowingly tortures him by attracting all the flirting in a ten-mile radius wherever he is, he’s also so thoughtful and considerate about things like this, knowing what Dean wants sometimes even before he does himself. 

“Looks great. Thanks, Cas,” Dean smiles, scooping up the plate and considering that yes, this slice of pie oozing with about a thousand kinds of berries really does look delicious. If only he had an appetite, he thinks, if only every mouthful wasn’t going to stuff in a reminder that he wasn’t ever quite _enough_.

But Cas is watching intently, so he eats with enthusiasm anyway, tries hard to engage in easy conversation, and tries not to watch Cas’ tongue dart out over his fork when he slices through his own slice of pie. Cas makes this content little noise of approval, and Dean feels his lips flicker into a smile but schools it in; Cas turns and grins warmly at him anyway with his cheeks bursting like a chipmunk, clearly using Dean’s own sense of humor to cheer him up. 

Dean relents, sighs to himself, and shakes his head, as though that can shake away his souring mood, and their conversation gets easier. Talking about the case, Sam, what they’ll do when they get back to the bunker, and making observations about other people in the coffee bar they’re in. Barista guy makes another appearance to _check everything is okay_ , and Dean bites back all of the selfish retorts he feels like saying, leaving Cas to politely nod and tell him thanks.

When he goes, Cas eyes narrow shrewdly in on Dean’s face again, but as before, says nothing. 

Three more times barista guy makes excuses to be conveniently wandering past their table, and three more times he goes to ridiculous lengths to get Cas’ attention. Cas’ expression for him turns from polite, to bemused, to pretending not to notice him, and each time the guy passes Dean’s heart drops a little more.

Cas’ phone vibrating against the table cuts Dean off from yet another round of scowling, announcing Sam’s finished interviewing the witness he wanted to, and that he’ll head back to the motel and go for a run. A _run_ , Dean thinks, scowling down at himself and wishing he had the kind of interest Sam does in keeping in shape that went beyond being fit enough to keep hunting. Cas’ tongue clicks audibly beside him in what sounds like disapproval, and Dean lifts his head to find Cas looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Dean shakes his head, and Cas holds his gaze for a moment then relents and sighs, nodding towards the exit and beginning to stand.

Dean makes to move, but before he can even press his hands into the seat to lever himself up, Cas is extending a hand to him and gently pulling, looping one arm low around his waist once he’s stood, then leaning in to kiss him sweetly, still tasting of pie and coffee. Cas hums like he’s appreciating the taste of him as well, and raises both hands to cup his face, kissing him more thoroughly, and stumbling forward a touch until their chests are bumping. Dean hesitantly raises his hands and curls them around Cas’ sides, and feels Cas smile against his mouth.

Cas pulls away then, tangling their fingers together and tugging him towards the door, strolling with ease and calling a soft goodbye to _barista guy_ as they pass, with Dean resisting both the urge to hang his head in shame, and glare at the guy in some kind of belated warning.

Once back at the car, Dean moves to take his key from his pocket, but instead gets crowded back against it with a soft thud. 

“You realize, Dean, that it is my intention to spend all of this existence, as well as whatever comes next for us, by your side?” Cas says, his voice firm but amused, teasing but reassuring, and accompanied with small kisses that leave Dean wanting even more of them.

“I—”

“And that it has always been this way for me; before we, I believe Sam refers to us as _getting a clue_ ,” Cas adds, smiling and leaning into him a little more, “I have always felt that we belong together,”

Dean doesn’t know what to make of that, because _belonging_ isn’t a word he understood before Cas. Though he likes the sound of it, loves it even, leans into it, and allows himself to quit berating himself for, well, _everything_ , just a touch.

“I… I guess you did stake your claim on me back in hell, huh?” Dean blurts out, feeling the ghost of the handprint that he actually misses, and cursing himself for never quite finding words sweet enough to say the kinds of things to Cas that he wishes he could.

Cas, though, is unfazed, amused even. He leans in to nuzzle against him then kisses him until Dean melts back against him, huffing out a small, contrite sigh. “I could say the same for you, Dean. For every occasion you _looked_ at me though would not touch, or take, or _ask_ ; I believe you were staking your claim of _me_ , long before now,”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know you were mine to take,” Dean answers, and it’s an old, weak argument, one they’ve had numerous times.

Cas smiles even wider and leans in to kiss him once again. “Then let me reassure you, as I will always reassure you, Dean; I am _yours_. I have always been yours. I always _intend_ to be yours. Regardless of who _flirts_ with me, or attempts to steal my attention; my attention is, and always has been, only for you,”

Dean’s breath catches at the earnestness in Cas’ words, the sincerity in his voice, and he kicks himself for being like this, for needing this reassurance as often as he does. But he smiles anyway, and Cas, Cas seems to feel this is some sort of reward for him, because he beams at Dean then, releasing him from his prison against the Impala, and pulling him into his arms.

“Yours, Dean. I am only ever yours,”

 


End file.
